


Harry plans a nice vacation to Europe

by lasagnabastard



Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Harry has it, Now for the trigger warnings, This is a character study really, death is a constant theme, no one actually dies but it’s a strong presence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26868826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasagnabastard/pseuds/lasagnabastard
Summary: Chronicling one Harry Osborn as he’s stuck in his penthouse, slowly dying.
Kudos: 8





	Harry plans a nice vacation to Europe

Harry looked like he hadn’t slept or showered for weeks, his hair was horribly greasy and he’d given up on pushing it out of his face. He reeked of Axe. Way too much Axe. His cheeks and temples were sunken in and his eyes seemed almost devoid of life. 

He’d spend hours looking at himself in the mirror, wallowing in self pity. Wishing death would come sooner and put him out of his misery already. 

His heart no longer fluttered when his phone rang and his best friend’s face graced the screen. His stomach would drop. He couldn’t bear to think about Peter. How, for all Peter knew, Harry was in Europe and ignoring him. He couldn’t bear to think about how Peter would feel when he finally got the news. 

Betrayed. Peter would hate him. Harry knew he would. Hate him for keeping this a secret and wasting away all on his own. But Harry could never put that burden on Peter. He knew exactly what it was like and he’d never wish that on even his worst enemy. 

Harry threw his phone. Peter had called once again, left a nice voicemail. He couldn’t take it. He flinched as his phone smashed into the mirror, sending glass cascading down onto the vanity and the floor. He looked at himself, disappointed, in the shards still left in the frame. 

Harry barely got out of bed. What was he going to do anyway? He was living on borrowed time already. He saw no use in showering, or brushing his teeth, and he barely ever had to go to the bathroom. Even eating was unappealing. Nothing brought him joy anymore. 

The penthouse had become a prison. Harry started viewing it that way around a month into his prolonged stay. He wasn’t allowed to leave, not that he ever wanted to. It’d be bad press for Norman. Part of him wanted to make his death a real spectacle. Just to spite his father. 

Harry had started drinking Norman’s booze whenever he felt like it. Never bothering to put the bottles back in the cabinets, leaving them in their places littering the penthouse. Who cared? Norman sure didn’t. Or at least, he never acted like he did care. Harry didn’t see Norman all that often, actually. Father of the year. 

There was a point where Harry thought, wished, that the alcohol poisoning would be what did him in. It wasn’t. And he persisted for longer. It was almost cruel, wasting away as slowly as he was and not being able to do anything about it. To not even be able to put himself out of his misery. 

When Harry got to the point of being actually bedridden, he had completely lost hope. Accepted death. As if he hadn’t already. Then was when Norman told him he’d found a cure. Harry bit back laughter. His father had to be fucking with him. 

He wasn’t, or so he said. According to Norman, and Dr. Michaels, this cure would work. Dr. Michaels called it Devil’s Breath, which worried Harry. Norman corrected him, calling it GR-27, and telling Harry that he had nothing to worry about. Harry didn’t quite believe him, but he wanted to. 

Norman told Harry about the plan to tell everyone close to them that he was simply in Europe. Harry reluctantly agreed to it. The thought flashed in his head; What if this “cure” doesn’t work? What if I die? How will he explain that one away?

Harry didn’t realize he was crying until a tear joined his words on the page. “Shit,” he mumbled, grabbing a tissue and trying to get the spot dry again. The word underneath the drop was a little smudged, but it was fine. Harry continued writing until his dad walked into his room. 

‘Dad’s here now, gotta go.’

He prayed to every god he could think of that Peter and MJ never had to see that letter. Oh how he would love to be able to burn it in secret one day. Not have to risk his friends knowing, at all.


End file.
